was something in his love of letters, his habits of luxury and expence,
the energy of his mind--the solitude, the darkness, the hauteur, the
reserve, of his manners and life, which reminded me of the German
Wallenstein; nor was he altogether without the superstition of that evil,
but extraordinary man. It is true, that he was not addicted to the
romantic fables of astrology, but he was an earnest, though secret,
advocate of the world of spirits. He did not utterly disbelieve the
various stories of their return to earth, and their visits to the living;
and it would have been astonishing to me, had I been a less diligent
observer of human inconsistencies, to mark a mind otherwise so reasoning
and strong, in this respect so credulous and weak; and to witness its
reception of a belief, not only so adverse to ordinary reflection, but so
absolutely contradictory to the philosophy it passionately cultivated,
and the principles it obstinately espoused.

One evening, I, Vincent, and Clarendon, were alone at Lady Roseville's,
when Reginald and his sister entered. I rose to depart; la belle Contesse
would not suffer it; and when I looked at Ellen, and saw her blush at my
glance, the weakness of my heart conquered, and I remained.

Our conversation turned partly upon books, and principally on the science
du coeur et du monde, for Lady Roseville was un peu philosophe, as well
as more than un peu litteraire; and her house, like those of the Du
Deffands and D'Epinays of the old French regime, was one where serious
subjects were cultivated, as well as the lighter ones; where it was the
mode to treat no less upon things than to scandalize persons; and where
maxims on men and reflections on manners, were as much in their places,
as strictures on the Opera and invitations to balls.

All who were now assembled were more or less suited to one another; all